


Skin Like Wine

by Nyxelestia



Series: Skin [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, Bruises, Bruising, Car Sex, Clubbing, Dancing, Exhibitionism, Gay Club, Hickeys, M/M, Marking, Parking Lot Sex, Possessive Behavior, Scratching, Sex in a Car, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, The Jungle (Teen Wolf), background danny/ethan, i can't believe that was already a tag, night club, pseudo-infidelity, slight exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxelestia/pseuds/Nyxelestia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a tease. Peter is territorial.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Stiles was just getting ready to lean in and kiss the guy again when he felt an aggressive hand clasp his left shoulder, little finger brushing up against his neck as a strong thumb dug into the bend between his arm and chest.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Both boys turned to see a man who looked only barely young enough to still be in a night club. But given the form-fitting white Henley showing off his physique, the dark designer jeans, and the well-trimmed facial hair – all working together to throw any androphile’s brain for a loop – Stiles doubted anyone would even try to pull a daddy-kink card on the guy, let alone ask him why he was here at all.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“May I have this dance?” Peter asked, sultry and dangerous in equal measures.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Like Wine

When Cobra Starship’s “I Kissed a Boy” started blasting through the Jungle’s impressive music system, half the clubbers cracked up laughing as the other half started cheering.

The guy Stiles was with was one of those laughing, his well-built chest rumbling as he pressed himself closer to Stiles. Andrew – or was it Andy? – leaned in, licking his lips and looking at Stiles’. Stiles met him half way, pressing his lips to the fourth mouth tonight, tilting his head and deepening the kiss right away as he and maybe-Andrew-maybe-Andy wrapped their arms around each other.

They broke off only to catch their breath, pulling back a little just for freedom of movement. Stiles turned around, keeping probably-Andrew’s arms around him as he ground back against him, leaning his head back against okay-maybe-Andy’s shoulder.

“I kissed a boy,” Stiles sang badly. “And I liked it.”

He wasn’t singing that for maybe-Andy’s benefit. He wondered if werewolf hearing would work across a club like this, or if there was too much noise for it to work.

His dancer partner laughed, anyway, leaning down to kiss Stiles’ neck just by his ear. Stiles wound his arms up behind Andy’s head as he caught sight of Danny and Ethan making their way towards the bar. Danny had one hand holding Ethan’s while his other hand dug through his pocket for his wallet. Ethan himself seemed content to let Danny drag him along, though when he caught sight of Stiles, he raised an eyebrow, amused.

The werewolf jerked his head slightly towards the lounge area just off the main entrance. _Peter_ , he mouthed.

Stiles grinned, mouthing back, _I know_.

Ethan laughed in realization as Danny dragged him away, and Stiles turned his attention back to the boy behind him, turning around so the boy was in front of him again, the hem of his loose tank-top dragging over the backs of Stiles’ arms as he slid his hands up that smooth abdomen, wrapping his hands around a reasonably structured rib-cage.

The poor guy had nothing on the kind of guys Stiles hung out with on a daily basis, but he was still hot and interested and exactly the kind of guy that pissed Peter off to no end.

Stiles was just getting ready to lean in and kiss the guy again when he felt an aggressive hand clasp his left shoulder, little finger brushing up against his neck as a strong thumb dug into the bend between his arm and chest.

Both boys turned to see a man who looked only barely young enough to still be in a night club. But given the form-fitting white Henley showing off his physique, the dark designer jeans, and the well-trimmed facial hair – all working together to throw any androphile’s brain for a loop – Stiles doubted anyone would even try to pull a daddy-kink card on the guy, let alone ask him why he was here at all.

“May I have this dance?” Peter asked, sultry and dangerous in equal measures.

“Can’t you see he’s busy?” probably-Andy asked, easy smile starting to stiffen up.

Peter’s hand tightened on Stiles’ shoulder, his own smile shifting along the scale from sultry to predatory, and Stiles could see maybe-Andy’s eyes start to get nervous – especially when he looked down and saw the smirk on Stiles’ face.

“That wasn’t actually a request,” Peter said, and without another word pulled Stiles right out of okay-probably-Andrew’s arms whirled him around, pushing him towards the exit.

Stiles could see several other club-goers looking on in concern, seeing an older and stronger man acting so aggressively with a younger and slimmer one – but Stiles waved them all off with a carefree smile and even a two-finger salute here or there. He cast one last apologetic look over his shoulder at maybe-Andy-maybe-Andrew, before Peter dragged him around a corner and out of sight.

As they went out the smaller side exit, Stiles called out to the bouncer, “I’ll be right back!” The man rolled his eyes as they went, but didn’t try to stop either of them – probably seeing Stiles’ conniving grin in the face of Peter’s clear irritation.

A few people waiting in the line in raised bemused eyebrows as they headed out towards the parking lot, and Stiles grinned conspiratorially at them as Peter dragged him off.

The two men weaved between the first row of cars, and then a little to the side in the second, until Stiles found himself being plastered up against the side of Derek’s Honda Civic and Peter plastered up against him.

“You just had to go clubbing, didn’t you?” Peter snarled into Stiles’ ear, hips writhing as Stiles hitched one knee up on Peter’s hip, using his leg to pull Peter in closer.

“Well _duh_ ,” Stiles said, reaching up towards Peter’s head and smiling when Peter wrapped his hands around Stiles’ wrists in an unforgiving grip. “Where else was I going to find that many hot guys in one place? That guy I was just dancing with was pretty cute…”

Peter scowled, and Stiles grinned.

“Not to mention all the free drinks I got sent to me at the bar,” Stiles continued. Granted, it had only been three, but Peter didn’t need to know that.

He used the motions of Peter’s hips to bring his other leg up, wrapping them both around Peter’s waist and letting the man hold him up, tightening his hold on Peter as the werewolf growled possessively into the hair at Stiles’ temple as he stroked at his neck, wrapping a gentle hand around Stiles’ throat.

“This…one guy…earlier,” Stiles said with a breathy grin, hips jerking up as Peter gripped Stiles’ throat. “Had a really nice goatee. Kinda like a young, blond version of you-”

Peter tightened his grip, cutting Stiles off completely. He waited as Stiles tried and failed to breathe in once, twice, three times, his entire body throbbing with blood all pumped up and nowhere to go.

Then he let go, pressing his forearm against Stiles’ collarbone as Stiles gasped for breath, other hand squeezing Stiles’ ass where he was _literally_ single-handedly holding Stiles up against him.

Stiles was still lightheaded from the moments of oxygen deprivation when Peter used his free hand to clutch onto Stiles’ hair, tugging on it to tilt Stiles’ head back and to the side. When Peter pressed his mouth to Stiles’ skin, his goatee scraped against Stiles’ smooth jaw. The sensation seemed to shiver across his head and down his spine and he didn’t try to stop the low hum of encouragement as Peter pressed more of his weight against Stiles, making it just that little bit harder to breathe.

Finally, Peter pulled back and let go, and Stiles’ scalp tingled from the sudden loss of pain and pressure as his head thumped back against the car. He was so caught up in the feeling that it took him a few minutes to realize Peter was undoing his fly.

“What-” Stiles blinked in surprise, trying and failing not to be coy. “Really? Out here?”

Peter growled into Stiles’ throat, the vibration and the sound both going straight to Stiles’ dick.

“I want people to _see_ that you’re mine,” he said, the breath from his words warming Stiles’ neck and collarbone in the mild evening chill. “Besides,” he added, slipping two fingers under the button of his jeans. “I find myself wanting to… _exhibit_ you.”

Stiles grinned.

“So, what, I’m your trophy boyfriend?” Stiles asked. He liked the sound of that – of being hot enough to _be_ a trophy.

Peter snorted, before taking his hand away from Stiles’ jeans to tug at his knee, until Stiles dropped his legs and stood on his own two feet.

Or he would have stood on his own two feet, but as soon as Peter was free of the vice of Stiles’ legs, he stepped back and practically flipped Stiles over. Stiles stomach was pressed against the window of Peter’s car, a door handle brushing up against his left hip as he ended up looking across the parking lot at the entrance to the Jungle.

And the people who were starting to look in their direction.

Thank god Derek was driving the Camaro again, and left Peter with the Civic. If this were a short sedan or sports car, Stiles’ current situation would be ten times more embarrassing. As it was, with Stiles’ height…

“Stiles…” Peter said, his hands stilling as he reached down further and further into Stiles’ pants. “Where’s your underwear?”

Stiles grinned and didn’t answer, instead wiggling his hips just that slightest bit.

That prompted Peter into action again, tugging down Stiles’ jeans. With one hand, he tugged down the tight waistband – Stiles’ loved and hated Lydia and her fashion advice in that moment – while Peter squeezed and massaged Stiles’ ass with the other. He kneaded the cheeks like they were slabs of meat, and dear god did Stiles want Peter to tenderize them. Or him. Really, he wasn’t all that picky at this point.

He pushed back with his hips, right into Peter’s grip, and Peter swatted at the blood-filled cheeks as he finished tugging down the jeans just past their bottom edge, leaving his ass bare but his legs practically locked together.

Oh, this was gonna hurt so good.

“You are such a brat,” Peter said, his bulk pressing Stiles up against the car as he spoke right into Stiles’ ear. “You’ve been a bad boy, all night long.”

“Are you gonnaaa-” Stiles gasped as he felt a fingertip tease his hole. “T-teach me a lesson?”

“What do you think I’m here for?” Peter said. “As soon as I…”

Peter trailed off, finger probing deeper into his hole. Stiles grinned, pushing himself back onto Peter’s finger, letting the other man feel the traced of lube there.

“Now what do we have here…?” Peter mused, his forehead pressed against Stiles’ neck as he worked one finger in.

“Well…” Stiles moaned slightly as Peter twisted the finger while pushing it in. “I did meet a…a lotta boys. Tonight. Lotsa boys liked me _ee_ -”

He yelped as Peter practically jabbed at his prostate.

“Are you really going to try and convince me that you cheated on me, tonight?” Peter murmured into Stiles’ ear.

“I might’ve!” Stiles cried out, twisting his hips again. Peter gripped Stiles’ left hip with his free hand, holding him annoyingly still. Damn werewolf strength.

“Hmm…” Peter pulled away a little, leaning down and inhaling a deep breath through his nose.

Creepy werewolf noses.

“…no,” Peter said quietly, standing upright and plastering himself to Stiles again, a long line of heat at his back against the cool night. He pulled his free hand away from Stiles’ hip. “You didn’t.”

Then Stiles felt the unmistakable tips of Peter’s claws slowly scratching up his asscheek. “But lying to me about it still makes you a bad boy.”

“So fucking educate me, then,” Stiles challenged, trying to push back against Peter’s claws and whining when Peter pulled them away. Damn the man’s sense of hygiene, and his refusal to break skin anywhere without a first aid kit and running water immediately on hand. “Make me learn the error of my ways.”

Peter responded by pulling out his fingers.

“Oh, Stiles,” he said, tip of his nose brushing at the short hairs on the back of his neck. “If I really wanted to do that, all I’d have to do, right now, is walk away.”

“Noooo,” Stiles groaned, pressing his forehead to the chilled metal of the top of the car and the rest of himself back, right into Peter’s hard-on that the older man was resting in the dip of Stiles’ ass-cheeks. “You can’t leave me like this!”

“Oh?” Peter challenged, gripped Stiles’ hips with both hands and holding him down against the car, denying Stiles the friction he so desperately needed right now. “And why not?”

“Because…” Stiles swallowed, trying to move in Peter’s grip and cursing his traitorous dick for throbbing when he couldn’t. “If you leave me like this…desperate…right outside a club full of men who would be more than happy to help me out…”

Peter growled again, latching onto the back of Stiles’ shoulder with his teeth.

“…I wouldn’t even have to ask,” Stiles said, inching his hands down so they were right under his shoulders. “I wouldn’t have to do anything.”

He tried to use his arms as leverage to push himself back, but Peter’s hands snapped up to Stiles’ wrists. He pinned Stiles’ wrists with his hands and Stiles’ body with his own, lifting his mouth from Stiles’ neck only to start biting into the exact same spot on the other side.

“I’d just have to walk in,” Stiles continued. “If I walked in like this, with my mouth looking like I just blew a cherry popsicle and my hair looking like I got it styled by a pillow-” Peter dug the tips of his claws into Stiles’ wrists. “I would just have to stand there and wait. Could have my pick, even.”

Peter growled into Stiles’ shoulder as his hips moved down slightly, then jerked upwards again.

“So you can’t just leave me here,” Stiles said, smiling as Peter slid their hands upward so he could pin Stiles’ hands to the top of the car with just one of his own. He used his newly freed hand to reach for his pocket. “Because if you do, I’ll just get some other guy to take care of me when you couldn’t.”

“The hell you will!” Peter snapped, and despite the fact they both knew damn well what he was doing, Stiles still grinned victoriously.

With actual sex on the horizon – and the vague threat of a public indecency charge that would probably end up being handled by Stiles’ own father – Peter finally reached into his pocket and pressed a button on his keys to unlock the car. He stepped back from the car and pulling Stiles with him only long enough to open the back door and practically shove Stiles inside.

Laughing, Stiles went.

He fell forward into the back bench seat, clambering forth and leaning his forehead against the opposite window as Peter crawled in after him – _over_ him – and pushed at Stiles’ knees until he bent his legs enough for Peter to close the door behind them. With cars parked on either side of their own, it wasn’t completely invisible from the club, but someone would _really_ have to be looking to see them, now.

Granted, Stiles thought maybe one or two people actually were, but whatever, it was enclosed and private enough that they probably wouldn’t get arrested for public indecency.

Again.

He brought his knees in together so neither would fall off the seat, then flexed his feet so his toes were digging into the seat, Peter resting some of his weight on the back of Stiles’ ankles. Then Stiles dropped his weight a little, so his hands were both planted firmly on the leather seat, and rolled his shoulders as Peter searched through his pocket.

He wondered what kind of condom it was going to be tonight.

When Stiles heard the sound of Peter’s zipper coming down, he arched his back a little. He could see a very faint reflection of his victorious smile in the mirror when he heard Peter growl again, a distinctly inhuman sound.

“One day,” Peter said, reaching up for Stiles’ throat and dragging his claws down Stiles’ chest. “You are going to regret riling me up like this.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles gasped, breathing sharply at the trails of stinging skin Peter’s claws left behind. “Sure.”

Peter snapped his hand against Stiles’ ass again, and he hissed, jerking away and causing his shoulders to curl back even more, only accentuating the curve of his back.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the condom wrapper ripping, and Peter rolling the rubber onto himself. Then, he felt pressure at his hole, but it wasn’t the head of Peter’s cock.

Stiles whined at the faint brush of fingertip against his rim. “Peter, come _on_!”

“What’s the magic word?” Peter said, the sultry words seeming to drip down Stiles’ spine in time with the thumbs digging into his asscheeks.

“In. Me. Now!”

Suddenly, the warm hands were gone, his skin protesting the sudden cold.

“Not what I was looking for,” Peter said.

“Nnngg,” Stiles grumbled unintelligibly. “Fuck you.”

“I am trying to arrange that,” Peter said serenely. Stiles would never understand how Peter could maintain his control so well when they were like this – but he also wasn’t about to look a gift wolf in the mouth. “You’re the one being uncooperative.”

With a feather-light touch, Peter slid the tip of a single claw from the base of Stiles’ neck down his spine and towards his lower back, keeping up the consistent contact no matter how much Stiles contorted in the nerve-wracking clash of _too much_ and _not enough_. His finger tip circled Stiles’ hole just once, then slowly and painstakingly went back up.

“C’mon!” Stiles gasped. He tried to press back, but Peter used his other hand to hold onto Stiles’ hip, grip tight even the faint traces of lube from the condom doing its jobs between their skins.

“That’s not how you ask nicely,” Peter said, stopping his journey to scratch at the hairs at the base of Stiles’ neck. Goddamnit, why did Stiles have to have such a sensitive neck? “Use your manners.”

“Please!” Stiles blurted out, groaning when Peter chuckled. “C’mon, Peter, please, get in me right now, I need you like yesterday, I’ve been looking forward to your dick all damn daa _aay_ -”

Clearly, Peter had been looking forward to it, too, because Stiles wasn’t even finished begging when he felt the head of Peter’s cock press right up against his hole. Peter spit onto his fingers to rub against the edges, because it’s been almost an hour since Stiles first prepped himself with in the club’s bathroom stall and he could probably feel it.

Thankfully, they were both stubborn. Peter bought the fancy lube just for this purpose anyway, so a little spit and rub was all it took for him to start pushing in for real.

Stiles groaned in relief, bringing up his arm by the back of the seat to press up against the window so he could rest his forehead against his forearm. His other hand creeped outward until his fingertips were just over the edge of the seat, giving him leverage to push back and into the seat to keep from falling into the foot-well.

“Please, more,” Stiles said, because the infuriating bastard was barely an inch in and he was already pulling back out, until the tip was only barely brushing his hole. Stiles opened his mouth to plead for more, but Peter was already pushing back in, deeper this time. “Oh, thank god.”

“I prefer to be called ‘Peter’,” the werewolf deadpanned.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “With your…ego…thought you would…prefer ‘god’…”

The bastard was still moving at an agonizingly slow pace, slowly working his dick into Stiles in little movements inward and slow, long movements back out.

“I think God is just a bit too pure to be able to fuck you like this,” Peter said, and what the hell, were they really engaging in a theological debate while fucking in the backseat of a car outside a night club?

Even for Stiles, that was just a bit weird.

He opened his mouth as Peter pulled out again, ready to snark about Peter’s narcissism, when Peter thrust his hips forward in a sharp, powerful roll that pushed his whole dick into Stiles in one go, punching the breath right out of him.

Stiles was still trying to breathe in when Peter did it again, and again, seeming to time it so Stiles could never quite catch his breath before he thrust again.

He dropped, his folded arms collapsing onto the seat and his forehead landing on them. He tried to push back a little, but Peter had a firm hold on Stiles’ hip. Peter knee on the seat, other foot on the floor, and free hand clutching the headrest of the front seat. Where Stiles was precariously balanced, Peter was firmly grounded, controlling every movement both of them made.

Thank god – or, since the bastard insisted on it, thank _Peter_ – because Stiles couldn’t even hold himself up, by now. By now, he’s entirely dependent on Peter to stay on the seat, to have an orgasm, to get _fucked_ , and he didn’t even care that Peter enjoys having this kind of power over Stiles way too much for any of this to be truly safe.

It’s been a long time since Stiles has been ‘safe’.

Peter must have let go of the front-seat headrest, because Stiles was in the middle of twisting in the grip Peter had on his hip when he felt Peter’s other hand circle around his neck. His fingers were wrapped around Stiles’ throat, and as soon as Peter’s hand bent enough that his knuckles had some pressure on the seat, he _squeezed_.

Not for long – Stiles wasn’t on the verge of passing out, which was a damn shame but Peter refused to brush near the possibility of brain damage or death, constantly citing how fragile and delicate Stiles was in his humanity.

As if he didn’t enjoy that fragility and delicacy all the damn time.

No, Peter wouldn’t go that far in the back seat of a car outside a night club, but still, the constriction on his two singularly biggest blood vessels had his head throbbing right away, and the longer Peter held on, the more and more of the rest of Stiles’ body started to follow suit. He tried to twist out of the grip, but Peter never let go of Stiles’ hip. Then he tried to twist further _into_ Peter’s grip, but Peter just shook Stiles’ body in one rough shove.

Peter loosened slightly, then squeezed, loosened, squeezed, just enough to prevent Stiles’ vison from filling up with black but not enough to stop the throbbing. If anything, the sensuous movement of Peter’s hand on his throat reminded him of Peter’s hand on his cock, and that just made his dick throb in sense memory.

It wasn’t until Stiles was scrabbling at the leather seat with fingers almost curled into claws that Peter truly let go. He scratched at Stiles’ collarbone as Stiles gasped, coughing on his first breath in and chest heaving through the uneven rhythm of _in out in out in out_ , Peter stroking Stiles’ cock in time with his haphazard breathing.

And throughout all this, Peter didn’t stop fucking Stiles. He kept right on thrusting into Stiles, making it that much harder for Stiles to catch his breath. The stinging across his back and chest from all the scratches and bruises, the pulsing rush of blood from the strangling, and Peter’s hips slamming into Stiles’ ass – Stiles couldn’t think, and thankfully he didn’t want to.

Peter’s thrusting slowed as the man bent forward, his body plastering over Stiles. His fingers curling into something approaching a vice around the shaft of Stiles’ cock, Peter pressed weight into the claw welts on Stiles’ back as he nosed aside the collar of Stiles’ shirt to bite at his shoulder.

“S’gonna…take forever…to cover this up…,” Stiles said, barely forcing the words out with his half-breaths between the rolls of Peter’s hips and the waves of pressure from his fingers.

Peter growled again, pausing his movements – _all of them_. “I don’t _want_ them covered up, Stiles-” He punctuated the name with a very sharp thrust, and Stiles may or may not have actually squeaked a little at the sheer force of it. “That’s the point of covering you in marks, it’s so everyone can see them.”

Stiles smiled into the leather of the seat as Peter slowly pulled out.

“I don’t mean _tonight_ …” Stiles whined. “I mean tomorrow. Morning. So my dad doesn’t see and try to-”

Peter thrust in and held Stiles’ hips to his own. “Do _not_ discuss your father when I’m inside you.”

Stiles laughed and wiggled a little. “Then shut me up.”

Peter did, pulling out all the way and thrusting back in again, and again, slowly but steadily picking up speed. He paused only to take his hand off Stiles’ cock and wrap it around Stiles’ wrists, pressing them into the squishy leather seat and holding himself up over Stiles, before resuming his pace.

Not just resuming, but speeding up. Peter took Stiles’ words to heart, and Stiles found himself barely able to breathe through the pressure on his chest and the demanding rhythm Peter was setting. He couldn’t say much more than variations of _more_ and _Peter_ and _please_ , but that was already more than he needed to say, because Peter was going to fuck the living daylights out either way and all Stiles could do was hold on for the ride.

And what a ride it was.

When Stiles came, his back arched tighter than even one of Allison’s bows as his breath and limbs shuddered in Peter’s hold. He heard the _plips_ of his come landing on the leather seat – oh, Derek was going to kill them for this – and his hips moved with a mind of their own, riding out the wave of endorphins as Peter still, _still_ , continued to fuck him without mercy or care.

Stiles was gulping helplessly for breath as he otherwise hung limply in Peter’s hold, simply taking every harsh thrust and push and pull the man gave, chasing his own orgasm. When Peter came, he didn’t even stop to slip his hand under Stiles’ shirt as he clawed at his chest. Ripping fabric punctuated the older man’s final thrust as he held Stiles so close, a playing card wouldn’t have fit between them.

It must have been at least a minute, probably several, that they hung there, Peter’s grip on his hip and his wrists easing up in tiny increments as he breathed into Stiles’ neck, occasionally nipping at his shoulders. The car smelled like sweat and spunk and sex, and it must have _reeked_ of all of that and more to Peter’s lycanthropic sense of smell.

Eventually, Peter broke the silence, though only barely with how lightly he whispered.

“No matter how pretty those other boys are,” he said, lips brushing maddeningly against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “Just remember that none of them would ever be able to do this for you.”

Given a few minutes, Stiles could probably come up with a good retort or at least realize that technically, there probably were a few men who could.

But right now, with Peter draped over him like the world’s sexiest blanket and still reeling from the high of fantastic sex and an even better orgasm, Stiles could only nod and moan in agreement.

Finally, with aching slowness, Peter started to pull put, letting go of Stiles’ wrists to push himself up. Stiles felt a little empty once the head of Peter’s cock went past the ring of asshole muscle completely, even as he felt himself start to clench up again. Peter reached down into the little storage space between the two front seats, groping around for something inside it while Stiles looked at Peter’s dick from between his own kneeling legs-

At least until Peter cut off his view.

“Seriously?” Stiles asked, looking over his shoulder to raise an incredulous eyebrow at Peter. “Wet-wipes?”

“Would you rather I leave your semen there for Derek to find tomorrow morning?” Peter asked, unrepentantly wiping down the seat.

Stiles pretended to consider it as he waited for Peter to get all the spunk off the leather. As soon as the last of the fluid was clear off the seat, he said, “No, but I could’ve cleaned it off with my mouth.”

Peter froze, then sighed as he realized the opportunity he just missed. Stiles laughed, and Peter smacked his ass sharply.

“We’ll save it for next time,” he said, and oh god Stiles honestly thought his dick might’ve twitched at the thought there would even _be_ a next time.

He was still snickering as Peter rolled the condom off his dick and wrapped it inside the soiled wet-wipe. He scooched forward on the seat to make room, wiggling a little and yelping at another light slap landing on his ass as Peter pulled his briefs and his jeans up, only opening the car door once he was dressed.

Which still meant a sudden blast of chilly air to Stiles’ bare ass, but neither of them cared as much about that.

Stiles wondered where the wet-wipe went, and even debated asking – then figured he probably didn’t want to know. Instead, he contorted a bit to pull his jeans up. He hissed a little as the denim rubbed against his sensitive skin, and Peter grinned like the predator he was as he watched.

“Serves you right,” he said when Stiles glared at him. “That’s what you get when you go commando.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, finally buttoning up his fly and squirming his way out of the car. The door couldn’t open much due to the car in the next parking space over, so he ended up having the cool, metal wall of the Civic pressed to his back and Peter pressed to his front as he slide aside enough for Peter to close the door. The car beeped and the lights flashed twice to indicate that Peter locked it with the remote key, but Peter still didn’t move.

He pocketed the keys, then gripped Stiles’ wrists and pressed their lips together one more time. It was soft but thorough, proprietary exploration, and just as Stiles was starting to get hard again, Peter pulled away. He smirked when Stiles whined at the deprivation.

“Something to remember me by,” he said, tugging gently on Stiles wrist back towards the entrance to the club. There, the crowd that had seen them come out of the club was now inside, but most of the people in the line now took one look at him and knew what they’d been up to, anyway. There were whistles, cat-calls, and cheers, and one guy even held up a congratulatory hand as they passed the line. Stiles weakly high-fived him, causing the guy to laugh, and went up to the bouncer.

He held out his hand to show the black-light stamp on the back of it, proving he’d already paid for tonight’s entrance, and tried not to be captivated by the red pre-bruising of his skin under the bright lavender light.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Stiles,” Peter said, pressing an almost obnoxiously saccharine kiss to Stiles’ cheek before sauntering away.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too,” Stiles grumbled. The bouncer laughed as he let Stiles back in, and the last Stiles saw of Peter was the older man winking at him, before he rounded the edge of the door and disappeared.

Inside were some of the people who saw them leaving, and that got even more congratulations and wide-eyed looks, with occasional moments of incredulity. Ass smarting from the feeling of denim against his abused skin and legs still trembling from orgasm high, Stiles stumbled his way through the club and up to the bar, fumbling for his wallet and pulling out his fake ID and some cash to order a shot of Viniq.

“Jesus Christ,” he heard after setting down the empty glass once he drained the shot. He turned to see Ethan standing behind him, Danny holding two empty martini glasses and laughing at Stiles as Ethan gaped. “You look fucked out…hell, you look _mauled_.”

Stiles frowned, and looked down at himself, seeing flashes of skin through his torn shirt. Before he could try to angle himself towards the lights for a better look, Ethan grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the bathroom, Danny following a few moments later.

In the much more sedate lighting of the bathroom, a few men laughed or hooted while the bathroom attendant rolled his eyes. Stiles could see why when Ethan pushed him in front of a mirror.

His lips were red and swollen like he’d been fellating the hypothetical cherry popsicle he’d taunted Peter with earlier. His wrists were a dark red, well on their way to bruising a proper purple, while the plethora of bite-marks on his throat, shoulders, and collarbone were already there. The hickeys almost formed a collar, they were that lined up and packed together with the wine-colored abrasions shaped like Peter’s grip. While Stiles knew, intellectually, Peter had torn his shirt, he only just realized what it actually meant when he was staring at the scratches on his chest and finger-shaped bruises on hip through the shreds of fluttering fabric.

Danny whistled, impressed, while Ethan leaned into Stiles’ personal space for a close sniff, rolling his eyes at what he smelled.

“He might as well have just written ‘MINE’ all over you,” Ethan said.

“I’m pretty sure he did,” Danny said, and both the other boys started laughing.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles grinned and headed back out of the bathroom and into the mass of dancing bodies, already looking forward to the blossomed bruises he would be covered in tomorrow morning.

He had plenty of other boys to keep him company until then.

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this fic's title literally right now, because this thing was originally just titled "Steter Appreciation Week Day 6 Fic" since that's what it was. Then Real LifeTM happened. :( But it's here now! Let me know what you think (concrit is love!). I'm a little new to the fandom, but hopefully I'll be sticking around for a while. :)


End file.
